A Latex Moment with Silver

latex moment

You know, when you write a blog post and then the chaos of life hits? This is actually from last year, a latex moment nestled in the unpublished archives, written in a bit of summer, while we made the best of the distance.

4:00 pm after my carefully spaced burlesque class, I have haul my body home, cloth mask stuck on the sweat of my exertion and the humidity spiking my maybe Covid survivor caused, maybe pre-existing asthma. I think about the completely unhelpful “if you don’t feel well stay home” posters on everything.

Have any of us truly felt well, since March?

I text him my updates of where I am. When I hit the train station near where I live he already had the first plug in his ass. He’s not particularly loose by default, and I intend to fill him up, so warm up is important.

He is so tight. His ass is muscular, and looks like it has the grip it does.. Around two fingers he can clench hard enough to be a little uncomfortable. Silver knows the end goal for today is an egg shaped, ribbed number that inflates and vibrates. With its many settings and remote control, it’s ridiculous, decadent  and very human. Our commitment to our pleasure extends to hundreds of dollars spent on very carefully engineered tools to make him feel full and helpless. 

Fucking is already a bio hack, pleasure and a sense of mutual merging substituted over top of reproduction.  Kinky sex has a reputation for being a symptom of the extremes of “civilisation”, and today, preparing for a webcam worship session I am reminded that I live like royalty.

The rubber, in a sense, is dressing like it, too.

This fragile material was cut and hand glued, imported from Europe. It’s more expensive than anything else I own. Stored in layers of rustling white tissue paper, it is hand wash only, decadent and wildly impractical.

I shower before I slither into the costume I’ve chosen for tonight, a one piece latex catsuit and a hood. The process of dressing is particular. This catsuit has feet, and I begin by gathering each leg like stockings. Then I gently coat my foot and ankle in silicone lube. There is popping, snapping noises like elastic bands as I maneuver the limb into place. The rubber makes a satisfying noise and feels right when the divot of the heel wraps around mine.

I use white cotton gloves to protect the rubber, as I continue, lubing my legs, sliding and tugging it up over my hips. As I thread my arms into the sleeves the zipper at the back of the catsuit gapes, a little askew until I work out enough wrinkles for the next part.

I grasp the halves together with my right hand and pull firmly. My ass might be the widest part of my body, but I have the strength and leverage to get it up past that. It’s when it reaches the small of my back I need trickery.

I previously threaded a boot lace through the eye of the zipper, one end’s aglet snipped off. Now I use the lace to slowly draw it closed, pinching the zipper together as I go. Once I hit the small of my back, the trick makes dressing easy. In short order I am sealed from toe to the top of my neck. 

Now, more.

I pause and throw on a bit of eyeliner, and gather my still damp hair into bunches. The mask gets a little lube on the inside and I struggle to pull it on, chin first. Then, face roughly wedged so my features match it’s openings, I pull half my hair through each port at the top and zip it closed at the back.

A little fiddling takes me from pinched looking, to the still fashionable lip injection pout of the rubber compressing my face a little. Ringed by black, it makes my eyes pop, with only a little more mascara to look finished. My gathered hair becomes two buns on the top of my head, which while not so sophisticated, resemble nothing so much as a pair of ears.

The whole suit is hugging me in a way that I find very arousing. I could take or leave the slightly alien superhero look, as it will never really feel like anything but fragile lingerie, but oh how it hugs my thighs, my breasts, my waist and my ribs. Even the pressure about my head feels good, at least after a bit.

I add a little more lube to the inside of the cat suit, just to deal with where my new sweat will make me stick and call him over the chat client. Our faces both stare at me from my phone screen, as if I were having a threesome with a twin.

Both of us are completely dressed in black rubber.

He has a suit and hood, similar to mine but different in key ways. If my hood gives me a reverse panda look, his is, to me, much more erotic. Silver’s features are hidden under a sleek mask that uses laser cut pin holes to seem like the face is eyeless, the mouth erased. 

He is primed with flirtatious sexts and more casual play that week about “drones”, one of those mind control fetish concepts that seems to overlap rubber fet and hypno. He hasn’t been allowed to come for some time. We are leaning heavily into his core fetish cluster.

Drone space is about obedience without deviation. It’s not actually as easy as it looks outside of the arousal capacity of the fantasy itself. It’s getting someone to basically do a guided meditation, only the focus is a memorized pattern.

There’s lots of set dressing, calling your partner an “it” and roleplaying. We joke about getting an Alexa and renaming it with some cyberpunk hive queen name, so it can announce it does things to him on behalf of Domina Prime. Porn scenarios, of imaginary hives and factories, have numbered hierarchies. I think about the way that the name of every roman girl was her father’s and a delineation of her birth order. Prima. Secunda. Straight to Octavia and beyond, if her father was fertile enough.

Fantasy is a space to explore darker concepts, of permanence and loss of autonomy. We both get off on that happening to him. In our worship, these Sundays, I often spin out a game of sorts that realizes the terrible in vivid narrative. In practice I remain amused at the duality that you the reader enjoying this will find. If you are a fellow domme and I talk about my awkwardness, the hard work and my careful planning you will see yourself reflected. If I talk about my indomitable strength in my will over his and you are a sub, you will be charmed.

It’s both. 

I take a few minutes to find my feet, but I’ve mastered snapping together his fetishes and building this up on a foundation of my own desire. If I want to, I can turn him into a whimpering mess in about five minutes.

The latex on my body is stimulating me. I first thought the pooling wetness was sweat and lube obeying gravity, but pulling the zipper at the bottom finds a viscosity in the swollen lips of my cunt that can only be my own body.

After a preliminary lead in, I put him through his paces, practicing the most mindless and repetitive edging and hypnosis. 8 strokes slow, 4 strokes fast. I picked the numbers at random, using their memorable nature to make it easy for him to focus on only the count.

He reveals one of his surprises, a latex sheath for his cock and balls to make the whole thing even more decadent. I appreciate his commitment to the aesthetic even if I make him focus on being an “it”.

I like that he’s used two rubber cockrings to keep it in place. The cruelty, the extra swell of his cock trapped and his balls neatly packaged, asking me to see how sensitive they are. Once I am sure that cock cannot possibly get any harder, I move to what I have been planning all week.

Plugged, Swollen.

I tell him to take the next step and he gets the toy I asked him to ready, out of its tidy box and lubed up. Then the inflatable plug goes in and I thrill at the mechanical noise of its activation, and his shiver as it stretches him. I like that he is tight. I also like to push that tightness to its limits. He’s very careful about that, although later I will get him to find a set of graduated plugs, purely to assert my control that I know he is capable of more.

All men are different in how they lay down their plumbing. Silver’s system is close to the surface, easy to tease his ass just by pressing or vibing just behind his balls. I know the women he served before me initiated him that way. They did a good job, anal sex takes both a certain fastitiousness to make it inviting, but also a degree of self forgiveness if the biological inevitably is as eventual as I promise it will be. You can enema all you want, but someday you will find a mess.

I know that the body adapts and rebounds. I will use him as I like, and he will both suffer and enjoy it by turns. It’s a factor of trust, him that I won’t actually ask the impossible and me that I will ask him to do something for my sake and not his pleasure and see obedience without reservation.

Still, I have space to train him, or rather I make him train to allow me to occupy space inside him.

I stretch his ability to focus too, making him count the pulses in his ass and the pumps of his cock. In the hood, it’s harder to read how blanked out I make him, but it’s enough for me.

I was about to reward him by taking the hood he is wearing off, so he can see me without the blurring over his eyes, when he disobeys. He realizes that for about half his performance he accidentally set the bottle of KY just so, such that the white shape masks the bottom half of his body.

I had noticed it, but I didn’t care. He does, and breaks mood, to move it, a tendril of flustered creeping in even if I can’t see his face.

I will not have that. Probably the biggest “training” thing I work on with Silver is that he has a hard time putting obedience before perfection. Let a setting on a toy be fiddly, or me take a few moments to hunt for an errant object and his brain will focus on immediately fixing it. 

I force him otherwise, slowly, against his nature. This time when he tries to fix the camera view I issue a rare punishment, more edging. This will never come easily to him, becoming mindlessly obedient in the face of his own perfectionist desire to please thoughtfully.

But hey, no matter which outcome, we both win.

The 5,525 Mile Club

Conjugal Tents was not a phrase I expected to learn, much less use. The border remains sensibly sealed to the majority of traffic, though Silver is twice vaccinated, and I the Canadian once. At current suspicion that might be done at the end of the summer, with the start of the tentative discovery of metrics that will make it possible to lever our two countries open to each other.

I am late, this time, to the park. Usually I beat him by ten to thirty minutes and take up a book on a picnic bench in front of the US parking area. They do not want me there or inside the cars, though they tolerate me assisting carrying things about. But the park rangers have created a merciful compromise. No tents in the broad lawns or where the weddings happen at a steady clip as soon as the weather warms. But, in the more wooded far edge overlooking the road that splits the park from Canada proper, nylon mushrooms of various sizes sprout up.

It’s a proper field of desires.

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Long Distance Fleshlight Fuck

I’ve done a bunch of housekeeping and found some writing that never got shared. Technically this is like, September 2020, but it’s no less raw and sexy. As per the title: a long distance fleshlight fuck, caught on webcam. Also Silver has been even more away for 4 days and I am already climbing the walls. I have a problem. 😛

His face, oh, his beautiful face.

Desire/Restraint
Desperate, wrapped & milked. Fearing Release as much as her craves to have it. Long distance fleshlight fuck

I am watching him, pixelated a bit (although apparently my video is just fine), and a tiny rectangle of myself, a video call reflection. I am perched on my bed in a pair of emerald green panties, with my hair in a pretty dark braid down my side. 

We are both ghost pale, shared gifts of ancestors who hung out in the arctic circle. I think we are good looking, and nobody has disputed that fact with me recently. Myself with the faint traces of worn out makeup around my eyes, and a nose that turns pink any time the temperature dips below 15 C. 

I have strong, dark brows and eyes to match. He, blond, has that golden sand colour with the warmth of a sugar cookie just starting to brown on the bottom in his hair, or the warm way a cream lampshade looks when the light’s on. His eyes are very blue, but a deeper riff on the colour, no water or sky comparisons, more Persian, Azure or Sapphire. The only pink is his lips, small thumb print nipples and the ruddy swollen gloss of his cock.

He’s so beautiful to me. 

Lean angular lines, slender limbs, so fragile and delicate looking, at once with the placement of deliberately sculpted, built muscle.

The fleshlight he bought was chosen to please a voyeur, in clear. While he fuck it, it’s hidden from the screen. But I saw it earlier in photos, close ups of his cock penetrating, careful to showcase what he is proud of, but more importantly, proud to give to me. Now he has the camera set so I have, quite without him thinking about it, almost the angle I would have if we were fucking, and his cock was engulfed inside me.

The trigger for this particular escapade was me filming myself slithering out of stretchy black jeans. Somehow this tongue in cheek little end of day inclusion of the mundane was the encouragement to make himself ready to fuck for me.

I can hear the faint squeak of the fleshlight sometimes, see the building pressure and tension in his face and upper body. It’s very different than making him edge with his hand for me.

This way, it’s a whole body commitment, and the desperation on his face gets very different, not just intimate because it is closer, but this extremely vulnerable fear, knowing that the pleasure he is chasing is putting him closer and closer to the risk of involuntary disobedience.

I have my panties to the side, two fingers working in and out, running a spoken line of erotic teasing that I amp up and down. The right words and he gets increasingly more incoherent.

Human sexual pleasure is two parts, the mental and the physical. While the mechanics of orgasm have their own nerve paths to complete the reaction, regardless of the state of your spine, we know the brain’s independent ability to arouse can exist without touch and friction.

I cannot wrap my legs around him, engulf and take him inside. There are about 200 km separating my airy, gauzy bedroom from his more modern and boxy, sleek space. But, I can fuck him with my words as deeply as he is thrusting into the slicked, ribbed and sucking channel of the toy.

It’s not his own movements that make him almost come, it’s my reminder that he’s helpless for me. Sincerely making my case for how trapped he is is the best way to turn him into a pile of whimpers.

I remind him that he begged me not to come last month, and no matter how good this feels, he can’t come now. I remind him that he is opened to me, to use as I see fit. I remind him if he does come it will be with my visit, now less than 2 weeks away, but only a chance to have me consider it.

Because if he does come. he’d better be emotionally ready to take that vulnerability, the drop of succumbing.  He’ll lose that reassuring numbing of unsatisfied lust drugging him from thinking too hard about the most dangerous thing for him. He wants me so badly, and sexual release is removal of the hand on his throat, only to leave him yearning for me to put it back.

He wants my love. But, coming or not, that’s a constant.


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Cold Confessions At the Peace Arch

peace arch lovers

The wind rips through hard, a roar of the arctic, cutting through layers of clothes. Silver and I huddle closer together. The warmth of his body puts me in a relaxed state where I am not particularly chatty, but I just want to stay nestled up.

We have made a spot in the park out of two blankets and a flocked back plastic tablecloth, plus pillows and it is almost comfortable. Each of us are well wrapped, and our coats never come off.

It’s there about -1 to -4 C before wind chill. That’s quoted as between -10 and -20 C. Much of the time, today, it’s only two pale faces in a swathe of layers. We must be in love to put up with this.

Somewhere a snowsuit and sweater fetishist must be having a moment, but we look so ridiculous it whips around back into the romance of deprivation. Under the blanket hands steal under clothes, secretive and private. We are sure to keep what kinks you can pass in the bitter winter to ourselves.

I want to go to sleep with him there. We repeat endlessly how much we want the luxury of a private bed. We imagine cabins, apartments, hotel rooms, hot baths. I imagine camping, that even this would go on and on, putting us back in time to where we can’t get more shelter but we won’t have to part. There is a sensuality, even in the plaintive lack of immediate comfort.

My Property and I, in love and unable to shelter together any other way than this.

It’s a patently ridiculous situation, hemmed in by the sort of NIMBY suburb so opposed to access the nearest bus is a 45 minute walk away. News articles write their increasingly impatient pleas to make this park loophole impossible too.

The media has gotten firmer about the the whole border thing, too. When we (Canada) realized various politicians were jetting off to the Carribean and Mexico, it caused a career ending scandal for a few people. Add discovering that people who can’t afford to skip the usual winters in Canda via Florida realized that some of the people who could weren’t going to stop, and restrictions ate getting stricter. More tests, ridiculous hotel confinements. All of course waived for “essential” travel, making me feel deeply uncomfortable with the use of the medical system to be punitive.

But this is it’s own thing. The park is the border, neutral ground neither over nor in.

In Canada, fear of the border makes a convenient scapegoat for a country that, if better than the US, plays acceptable math with community spread. Love and touch are luxuries right now. 

I write this expecting to be seen as a selfish villainess. Although I already mentioned I am not so inclined to risk traveling the air route because I might carry something over or back in the morass of travel, there is a risk in maintaining even this bubble. Even if we both work from home and live clipped lives of smallness, with minimal contact with others, I still worry about it.

And hey, I am not like the UK, which accidentally banned sex with people outside of your household.  My governments are sympathetic to the fact that a household to cram your loved ones and childcare together is an uneven privilege, even if having to make practical exceptions in their guidelines creates and ambiguous mess that is open to self serving rationalizations.

I fear I will hurt someone else. I get anxiety watching movies with crowd scenes where everyone is unmasked. I live in a cloud of guilt that a kiss I call a need could be deadly.

It probably won’t hurt anyone else. But because I am not supposed to, even if I am allowed to, I cannot cleanly cleave what is and isn’t ultimately ok. It’s the usual mix of “badness” in sex and love.

Certainly the vitriol I get can be unintentionally hilarious. A few months back, hearing I got Covid, someone wrote that I deserved it for “travelling to the US to do sex work”. When you are reminded that the average person can’t conceive of a domme doing it for her own gratification, slut shaming meets erasure meets just world fallacies. 

My covid was definitely community transmission back when it all started, but we want to believe that only bad people get it. We want to believe it’s a binary, not a nasty lottery with just enough human agency to fight over.

Is it better or worse to feel powerless about covid or to be angry, because control seems almost in your grasp?

I do also have a degree of self awareness here of my privilege. There’s thousands of couples like me, sincerely in love, who at current prediction will be separated between March 2020 and October 2021. Not everyone can manage 2 weeks of seclusion. And Covid is very real, as I know so from surviving it, as did Silver back when it first made landfall, both waiting out an illness like something out of an old novel. Bed bound, weak, lungs scorched like we had breathed in bleach.

But reading the news articles about the Peace Arch Park, with leading questions about crossing a border in a way that isn’t happening, and clumsy whining crop-quoted from Whiterock and the area otherwise around the park, is a reminder that some people already think you are scum.

In the neighbourhood around the park, they worry people visiting will “come into their community”, a laughable statement in the rows of houses without even a corner store. There is no local community to intrude into, just a nicely walled development of tidy little houses. And the residents are not thinking about the larger Surrey or even Greater Vancouver area, much less the province or country. Their community is a bubble, a fortress forty five minutes walk from the nearest public transit.

 For decades the locals of this neighbourhood have hopped the border for cheap gas and groceries, circumnavigating various taxes by living in close proximity to the US. Now the daily line of cars is gone, only a few essential travelers tick by, and there are six tents up in the little wooded area. I think to myself that this neighbourhood has gone out of it’s way to keep free from the transient population, cutting itself off from the rest of city and visible evidence of inequality, only to end up with the so called “conjugal tents” in no mans land here.

It’s not justice, but it is irony.

Lest you think the Peace Arch is a hive of the lovelorn only, it’s also still being used by locals.

From time to time a person walking a dog passes through, or similarly in and back out groups or singles to stretch their legs. Fury and fear of diseased outsiders doesn’t limit still using the green space, or maybe the sort of people who own dogs are not those who petition MLAs to shut this place down.

When the Canadian side closed they said it was pressure for the traffic, not fear of Covid. Every news article since then has emphasized there are no known transmissions from this spot. Now, of course it’s more emphasized the motive was a possible hazard.

A disguised vehicle with a border patrol person circulates on 0 ave, checking for the scourge of Amazon packages and car parts. On my return, this time, they decline to search me, though I suspect it’s an unwillingness of the officer to leave their cozy vehicle.

Border police are always brisk and unfriendly, holding you under scrutiny like every interaction is an examination of miserable underclass. They were like that when the border was open, but a kiss even in the before times costs a quick brush with an armed man who wields significant state power, every time.

I have no car parts, nor Amazon parcels. I did pass Silver two things his way, a body harness of handmade leather, and little bears made marzipan, carefully molded and assembled by me.

So, the border guard sends me on my way. I leave comfort with him to the warmth of home. I wish I was generally happy right now but I am not. Not (just) because we are parted, but because the whole stupid situation with the pandemic is treading water with little energy.

Will the virus mutate too fast and outstrip the vaccine? Will we be three years deep and still navigating barriers?

I miss him when I leave with an ache of frustration that comes from not knowing when this long limbo will end. I love him. 

Your Pleasure Doesn’t Matter

your pleasure doesn't matter

It’s a cliché of femdom porn, but many cliches endure because they work. It is also the antithesis of how I (usually) operate and it’s been a trust fall-esque exercise since our first hookup when my train was late so he drove me 3 hours home (and 3 hours back alone). It’s so hard to let myself relax and enjoy someone’s giving.

This one is both a soft limit, and the kink that I am exploring right now: being inconsiderate.

The vulnerability of being dominant is ultimately part of being a half of a whole. In power exchange you get things back, in the meta of D/s, you put a lot of vulnerability in the ability to have expectations for someone else that, more often than not, fetishize the unreasonable.

As such, I recoil at the masochists who do it just to please you, even as my own self thrills to see pain in the face of my lover. I needed Silver to be the slutty little masochist I discovered him to be, because my dominance has always had a generative more so than a consumptive aspect.  

I told him early on his fetishes belonged to me, the control panel of his sexuality. I want to be powerfully and compellingly desired. I glow to command attention, and have to tame very petty jealousy when someone is more important or better at something than me shows up. 

I can see how, of course, the inverse is true. Silver smiles more happily than anything else every time he is reminded I also actually share his fetishes, particularly latex. I think he feels about that the way I feel such delight in his craving to hurt.  

Pretty, perfect, driven, wired boy. It’s funny to use the diminutive on someone both older and having more of his shit together in many respects than me (we are about 8 years apart in age, and I often appreciate feeling it as much as it makes me insecure). But, “boy” comes easy. Maybe it’s the big blue eyes and sandy blond hair? Maybe it’s the painting in his attic, unweathered pale skin. I couldn’t place it.

Telling him his pleasure doesn’t matter did not come easily to me, but I am using it now.

There are a few things that come forth from Silver’s sexuality, fed from his desires and quirks. The masochism. The rubber. The hypnosis. The self initiated urge to please via “surprises”, and the surprisingly hard limits around long term rules via contracts. He has, historically, pleased me by trusting that I will treasure who he is. I prefer it when he is active, not passive, to please me.

And in intimate talk, to each other, those words tripped out of him “my pleasure doesn’t matter”.

At the time I corrected him. His pleasure, like his fetishes, are tools of my control. I was feasting on his enjoyment of this as a significant platform of my sense of power but also, my sense of security. 

In every person there is this being you can dredge up in psychology as an “inner child”. You use it in thought exercises to teach yourself to shed that raiment of self loathing many of us use to gird ourselves against things that are good for us.  

My child-self saw some shit, and often fantasised about folded down into nothingness, not a burden to any adult. I craved to be needless and giving, conceived of myself as selfish. Trauma didn’t make me dominant, but it probably influences my perception of love.  

In the hindsight of adult maturity, I can realise, alongside the pile of  other abuse I experienced, I was a victim of emotional incest. We should not ask children to provide for adults as I was. 

Unfortunately, knowing why I am fucked up doesn’t fix being fucked up.

Silver is perfectly willing to be patient with that warzone aftermath, but ultimately there is a piece of me that stays alert to danger when most would melt into an embrace.  You want to know how meta this is, I am anxious to write this in case he worries he is too much of a nuisance. 

So big breath, relax: Your pleasure doesn’t matter.

When I say it, he reacts with that sort of erotic, wide eyed cringe that makes my heart sing and my core tighten. It’s the same shudder of found out desire he gave when I discovered “whore” or “slut” and even more so “bitch” are sharp yanks on the leash on his soul. The same caught breath and big eyes, but relaxed body, as when I physically pull his cock between his legs in a controlling fashion. 

Trick is, I can’t just say things to indulge him. I have never been the sort of domme who could do things I wasn’t into, just cuz. The latex I wear is my fetish. The pain I give him, my desire first. To work for me (and for him), I had to take that phrase, understand it and use it as it means to me rather than just wave it about ineptly. I have to believe it, not put it on like an ill fitted costume.

In the spirit of the phrase, it’s been a defining thread in our relationship, to trust his giving. The first time I leaned in, it was a dark and rainy night, much like the Pacific North West weather of the last 2 months. He offered a big favour, and I stepped out into uncertain ground and said yes. I knew, over a year ago now, that letting him drive me back to Canada was a huge imposition. But that he offered because he meant it. So big breath, trust, say yes. And it worked. Every extension, every tentative query that my whole self might be wanted, has received an affirmation. Now I try it more consciously, with that phrase.

Let his pleasure not matter. Let myself enjoy. Let me trust to use him and be sure this is as it is supposed to be.

On Having A Cross Border BDSM Relationship During Covid

There is a point of comparison between how the safe drama of BDSM and ,the shockingly intense effect a pandemic both weigh on a relationship. One comes from a place of fundamentally healthy intensity, the other forces you to find something to cling to that’s good feeling, just to stop the inherent emotions of a crisis from making you crack. Add the first burning flare of a new relationship and it’s been months of yearning. It’s been a year.

Oh my god, it’s been a year.

We’ve gone from from first kisses at midnight and taking travel for granted, to leaping through hoops to even get to hold hands. I’m writing this in the melancholy cloud of self pity that comes from not getting to spend our One Year Anniversary (TM) together in person. But there’s a certain awareness that at least I have the capacity, despite all this distance, despite getting my own go with Covid, to feel something close to blessed.

Blessed is an odd word, since how we casually use it mostly means fortunate. I don’t think there’s a deity giving out favours, but I can see how when things feel unfair in your favour it is more comforting to believe it. In our case, Silver and I are fortunate in two senses, that he is the one I get to miss so very painfully, and that I get to miss him like this. Not everyone gets even what we have.

Not that I expected it same time last year, but let’s do a retrospective of how we got here: From scratching an itch with a cute sub guy, to deciding there was a pretty good body of evidence this might be my Person.

I thought fretting if I was rebounding after a break up in 2019 was going to be my biggest pathos. I though Silver was Mr. What I Needed Right Now, and I’d work the rest out later. At the time, and you can see it documented month over month, I figured slow was better. At the best of times I am good at feeling things hard, and I wanted to be careful with my heart. I mapped out a month by month calendar of careful escalations. But, people plan, and God laughs, so the saying goes. My commitment to the Aesthetic has nothing on the adaptions we must put love to, to live in and with a pandemic.

And I think of the sentiment, the impacts we put of old concepts: Dating. Courting. Love letters. Shame. Adventure. Simplicity.

I already mentioned that Covid had a sort of time machine effect on relationships, so I suppose I expand on that point. For good or for ill, this has been a ridiculously romantic situation. I don’t mean to say that the sufferings of billions is my immature backdrop. This is no renting an antebellum plantation so the columns will look good in your wedding photos.

This is romantic in the sense that the obstacles add a conflict you have to face together. Where everything is a monumental struggle, so the least bit of your efforts to reach each other has all the more impact. And it’s a lot of yearning, and time to think about missing them.

On Romance

I wish I had saved the origin, but in the ship wars that spill over into Twitter, a fragment of an argument slipped past: Romantic, in fiction, isn’t actually the model of what a relationship should be, it’s drama. Drama necessarily mean a certain degree of angst, discomfort and pathos. Stick “Grand” in front of the word “Romance” and you probably can guarantee deadly peril too.

In this pandemic, everyone flails around for a story to make sense of it. The Spanish Flu and the Blitz are popular. Sometimes we trot out war metaphors from other conflicts. I see the point, to a degree. I had not expected food shortages, sheltering in place or blocked travel would be part of my adulthood. I hadn’t expected to get sick in a pandemic, though I suppose I assumed there would eventually be some acute calamity or another. I just thought it was going to be a natural disaster or a personal crisis. My imagination stretching to earth quakes and car crashes, not long, long months of nothing to do while everything happened.

Covid, ultimately, is going to be Covid, in the stories after this. We’re nowhere near out, with it’s long tail aftershocks on the economy predeicted to last long after we are all hopefully stabbed twice and set back out into the working world. But, for now it’s the older meaning of the term “romance” we seek comfort in, meaning a story, often grand in scope.

I am sure it wasn’t Tolkien’s Hobbit that made participating-under-protest Bilbo the first hero self aware of the unpleasantness of the practical details of adventure. Nonetheless, the Hobbit and it’s titular species are the lives of most of us. Sure we have personal pains, but most of us go out of our way to avoid anything epic, because we are not self destructive.

And yet, in the awful can we farm a lot of just plain awe.

We are all aware of the fact that bad things breed good chemistry. The shared experience of suffering, even ritual and light suffering, bonds you to new friends and compatriots fast. Much has been said of the addictive nature of rollercoaster relationships, no matter how much they tend to behave a lot more like steamrollers to our lives and real happiness. So, what about the inherent drama of kink?

I believe that one facet of BDSM’s appeal is putting that lightening in a bottle. Like taking up sword fencing or tae kwan do, or immersing yourself in a nice novel, you get all the advantages and high energy of what would be bad otherwise, and none of the messes. A beating ends with check ins and aftercare. A scene almost always begins with both parties having the understanding of the ride the are on and where it is going. BDSM relationships really don’t get much worse than vanilla ones can, but can have a significant uplift than the alternative.

Perversity breeds a language for obsession, foreplay for days, and investment. I know a lot more kinky folks who are REALLY into their partners and the relationship itself, than vanilla couples. (I think people who are living a $Religion Lifestyle are the only ones I see otherwise so reliably obsessed in building a big thing off being together)

Now try being kinky, dating with a lot of firsts that are symbolic even for vanilla folks, and then have a pandemic crash through your world.

Let us be clear, in these times I exist in a position of relative safety and advantage. I survived Covid with only mild respiratory damage. Silver and I work from home, and live a not unreasonable commute from the only easy to reach neutral ground between our nations in the world. We even managed a visit in October, because I could afford a $250 flight and a $60 uber, where I plucked his technical virginity.

After, I confided that I had not expected it to impact me as much, to feel so bonded. I had lost my own technical virginity with the speed and enthusiasm of a teen breaking in her first pair of Doc Martens. Literally. I snapped my hyman like I was trying to make something transform from painful and chafing, to the badge of experience and the power I wanted fucking to symbolize. Control. Freedom. Artificially extended childhood through “purity”, as the larger body of adults recommended, constricted.

So it was bewildering to feel something a little more real just from popping a little rubber bag on his cock and making him ejaculate inside me. And it was reassuring to be told that he also felt like something relevant had passed between us. Uh, did True Love really wait? Snrk.

I love him, rather intensely. Did I mention that?

In November, after passing quarantine confinement for the first part, we made a last pilgrimage to the Peace Arch. The sky, which had turned Cascadia grey by my return home from Washington and dumped water daily, gave us a break for one perfect Friday afternoon.

Understand, of course that this park meeting would be unthinkable if we didn’t lead very constricted lives. Numbers of infections are watched in British Columbia and Washington. Even so, this was the tail of the year, with few leaves in the trees and the earth even more muddy than our first May meeting. And the park had only a few well swaddled few, more border guards than guests.

These days, there’s a significant pressure, and for good reason, to be as good as possible. The intimacies of my picnics feel as daring as the carnality of my sex life, if not more so. I worry that I made my calculations wrong. I worry that if I tell you, even here in a fairly shielded sex blog I will end up earning some sort of scarlet C. And guilt too, because some people don’t have a means to see the one they love at all. And woven into this shame, is a sort of awareness of the larger struggles from time past.

So much hope and want, all poured into one thermos!

I made oxtail soup from scratch in my roomate’s instant pot. Simple, carrots, celery and onion, the latter diced nice and fine, and a little tomato paste and herbs from the last on my balcony. I wrapped the thermoses in a pretty tea towel, making the most simple thing we were stuck with as special as I could. He brought pumpkin pies capped with Chantilly cream, rich and perfect. After the bandstand proved occupied by one of the few other people (the seemed to be doing some sort of group therapy), we stole away to make a plastic tablecloth and blanket nest at the door of the little building that serves as a kitchen-for-rent in better days.

I wish I could tell you of some great erotic secret game we played, but the truth was I had a migraine that made me ache until he began to stroke along my back and neck. Though there was more than captured kisses, there wasn’t the full lavished torments to the degree we sometimes do.

The truth is that I’d seen that arch that’s a monument to our respective nation’s diplomatic peace a good dozen times now, and until now I though it was trite and over stated. It’s League of Nations styled optimism that the First World war got it out of our system at long last, refreshed just this year with new white paint on a hulking structure that’s too public to pretend its a lost gate to Narnia, or some such. But there, framed by trees shedding their last leaves, and cuddled close against the wind, the fact that the gate was essentially closed hurt. It was a family heirloom you took for granted as “that old thing” now pawned, or lost in a fire.

Here we were, almost quaint enough to make the most Family Values oriented elder cluck indulgently at us. This picnic was all we had. Sure, I wanted him back in a rubber bondage sack with his hard cock peeping, and every fiber of his being focused on what I might do next, but it’s going to take either great age or a traumatic brain injury to make me forget that afternoon.

The soup arrived still so hot it burnt my tongue, but I want to make it again. And I can’t tell you if the pumpkin tarts were the best I have ever had, or if that was the moment’s energy giving them the flavour, but ultimately, if my meat prison is giving me intense happiness in a pile of things I would have previously thought were mundane, I will take it.

We hoped hard, in a few weeks, things might stay as easy as they had in October and maybe, just maybe, one more meeting to end the year. One more hand on throat, midnight kiss to seal 2020 with the same hope we entered it with.

And after.

The panedemic got worse, of course. We know, you’re reading it with me. The optimism that I had thought perhaps to risk an imprudent NYE rendez vous all abated. I MISS HIM. I won’t see him or hold him or pin him in place and hurt him for months.

The park’s awash in the sky’s further blessings: wet snow, and here I am making a tearful record. I shan’t fill his ass with anything, but toys at my direction. I have to reassure my beautiful, perfect man that my crying isn’t some ill he did me, but the awareness of wanting.

And the pictures we send back, well, his pale face and perfect dark blue eyes have a little sad. The hair he grew out long enough to yank will have its trim. I suspect he just packed the bounty of gifts he wanted to get me into a big box an freighted it to me, instead of getting to watch as I blushed redder and redder at each unwrapping and put kisses on his neck to hide my face.

There’s a rubber armbinder still in tissue, waiting for me to join him and strap him in. There’s promise unrealized, things I hope for. Even our relationship, at one year at the end of the month, has crazy holes we will have to wait to back fill. We have spent barely three days together in a row, and still need to determine if four is too much. I have to let time keep going forward to get there.

I will comfort myself. I make the effort to dress and pretty up as if the pandemic barrier might drop at any minute and I would need to drop everything to see him. (with laws in place, I doubt it will go that fast). After January, I will buy a short whip, and take it to the nearest park to learn to aim it, so the next time we are alone, even if he’s stolen from me again, I can send him back with welts.

I will progress as best I can with what we have for now. And it will be some comfort that although hot soup and a picnic are now the height of decadent luxury, they feel like much, much more.

Taking My Submissive’s Virginity & My Feelings -An October Visit to Silver (Part I)

Taking My Submissive's Virginity, mending buttons, different ways to dominate him, and love

This is going to be long, and entirely true, a diary trying to fit three days into some coherent narrative.  After I started writing I realized the average reader didn’t want to gobble up several thousand words in one post, so I’ve broken it into parts.

The button on his coat set itself free, and I took the sewing kit he never used, but had in stock in his usual bachelor practicality. Then, with a needle and cuss, I mended it.

I said it would take two minutes, and it was more like fifteen, but I was happy to do it all the same. My slightly more than weekend visit had been an indulgence for me, but it’s in my nature to find pleasure in the smallness of the mundane.

When this happened we were a few hours away from carting me off to the airport, and the two weeks of confinement I am enduring while I write this. The obvious response on my part, with very little time left, was to have a “what does this all mean?!” relationship conversation and follow it with a blow job. I might be a bit of a yoyo sometimes.

After I talked about hard questions, like where this is going, desire followed. Posed like a man proposing, one knee down, one up, I suck his cock into my mouth. While I do so, his hands grip the marble edge of the counter behind him. He’s holding himself exposed and vulnerable for me by instinct, and more than a little conscious commitment to the spirit of the law, if not the spoken letter. I haven’t told him to act as if he’s invisibly bound, but he adopts it as naturally as I stir need in him.

He always submits to me.

I think, given a choice, he would prefer a hand job. This blow job definitely isn’t about what he wants, more satisfying my own cravings. I like using my mouth. I’m not so skilled, but the nerve endings and the taste, from oral, are both deeply gratifying to me. So he surrenders to this, accepting his place is to be used how I feel like it.

This time, to my delight, he also makes  few thrusting forays, fucking my mouth. If I was a bit more relaxed I would rub my clit and come with his cock in my mouth. I like his taste and shape, and how he feels, even after four days of exploring desire, he still gets fully hard inside me.

Unfortunately, for various reasons I am still holding an unplaced thread of anxiety, and yet, in his company he has made the pain and half body cramps of the migraine I have had for 4 weeks finally leave me. We’re in a pandemic and work (in an office, back in Canada) is bothering. A doting, beautiful submissive man in another country is a treat at the best of times, and an extravagant luxury in the current circumstances.

I took my property’s technical virginity.

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Sonnets for my submissive

Sonnets For My Submissive V

I know why Fenris ran the sky after such prey.

The Sun

My lover’s lines are gilded in the light
And from the window, the warm rays caress
My hands grip his cream wrists and thighs squeeze tight
As firsts now gathered, my right as Mistress

Fill me twice within four days, and come quick
Your release my claim, your cock my possession
Fit where I ache and wetness makes me slick
Taken to satiate my obsession

You live to suffer & to offer joy
Vulnerable in every drop I drain.
Made for this, alluring man, my eager toy,
Who pleases the eye, & as much my brain

But in this golden hour I seek to share
Let the sun kiss also, where I find fair

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Sonnet III for Silver

How can my joy hurt such to make me weep?
Your first words to me at each starting day;
Your last spoken when you stop to sleep.
First in my thoughts, but so very far away

Lithe, love, light and pale as the summer grass;
Clever fast and lusty, gifted in your wit.
Patient with my heart: sharp & frail as glass
Perversity met, matched- as a glove may fit.

My whims & needs as much your fondest treasure
You I may wanton toy, hurt & restrain
& yet you strive to bring me more pleasure
And smile to give your thank yous for the pain.

So if this year’s chances keep us apart
To have you is well worth a heavy heart


I caught myself crying again, while doing laundry. It’s a scary time, with the uncertainty of what might be, between going back to work after sick leave, watching the rather grim situation in the US and the world. But, love is such that, suck or not, I would rather miss him than not have him to miss.

He stoically puts up with my poetry.

Polishing Silver

Silver is, among many things, my muse. Lurid and vivid sexual creativity was one of the gifts the fae left for my birth, and love makes me into a better artist.

Every Sunday, minus when he was road tripping to family, or those weekends we managed an in person park picnic, we have Sunday Worship, aka furious mutual masturbation over webcam, aided by teledildonics via the good people at Lovense, and the quieter cooperation of the manufacturers of the Pavlok.

This particular weekend, a Hush was buried in his ass and the app hooked to my phone so he could experience vibrations entirely under my control. I was squeezed into a blue latex number that didn’t just hit him in the fetishes, but punched the target through the wall. It also appealed to me on two axises of desire: my long standing teasing kink (Mercy Maria uses pro-domme work to get herself a reverse harem, I seriously consider stripping as a sexual outlet), and my newly discovered interest in the medium of rubber clothing, itself.

And regardless of the props or where I decide we go this time, my mouth is always spinning out filth: alluring, lewd and descriptive. I’m privately very self critical of my abilities as a hypnosis mistress, but I do have a gift for the erotic gab, and Silver was enraptured at my crooning and storytelling.

The fantasy I almost made Silver hands free cum to last Sunday was telling him about sharing him out to my domme friends. It wasn’t the detail of hands touching, the excess or the cruelties. It was describing him earnestly looking to me, to be sure he was serving them properly, like I wanted. 

It’s that “you endure what they, do but you know it’s all about your Miss” that gets him so bad.

Ultimately Silver is a romantic, in that he doesn’t want to serve any random domme, regardless of having certain aesthetic fetishes. He wants that connection to one person. I don’t think I can fully express how sweet that is.

When he is screaming in mixture of lust and distress because he thinks he is about to cum without permission, well… that’s really gilding the lily.

I am also very big on the intimacy of a singular “person”. I fail at “proper” poly, although I can do some group activities just fine, but the idealized network of loves and separations of relationships in one’s sexuality just… does not work for me. I fall in love and that person is writ large in the sky.

Silver. Silver. Silver. I actually slipped into love more gently than with anyone so far. I am lucky about his amiable patience with my slower roll to “commitment”, but in turn it was not quite the same 2 by 4 to the face that some of the past experiences were, and yet… I prefer coming to love him slowly. I prefer the crush kindled as a certain warm affection that grew and grew until the hearth of my heart was lit bright and hot.

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